by Alaric Bond
Banks was aware he was in danger of losing his temper. "Are you saying I was wrong; are you questioning my order?"
Fraiser recognised that he had worsened his situation with a slight nod, in the same way that a duelist might acknowledge a minor wound, but still continue to fight.
"Sir, I dinna believe they were towing the ship in order ta continue the action against us."
The captain sighed. "Do you not?"
"No sir. From where I stood I could see the men were still engaged in fighting the blaze."
"The fire was all but out."
"Forgive me sir, but the fire had a good hold below. From the taffrail I could see a red glow deep within, I believe they were attempting to tow the ship’s stern inta the wind. That would have been the most sensible course of action, I’m sure you would agree."
"The most sensible course of action would have been to surrender."
"I canna account for that, sir, although I believe that when a vessel is afire men’s minds might become a mite preoccupied. It is a terrible thing, a burnin’ ship."
"A terrible thing indeed, but I believed the fire under control." Banks spread his hands out wide, and gradually the tension relaxed. "You could have warned me."
Fraiser’s head lowered slightly. "I could, and for that I am deeply sorry. It was my intention, but my mind wisnae thinking correctly."
"We had been in action a fair while."
"Yes sir, we had."
There was silence for a moment. Fraiser had made a fair point and one Banks had not expected: he had been certain the Frenchman was intending to continue the action, and not considered the possibility that she was merely fighting the fire. They had been given the chance to surrender, but who could be sure that the offer had been heard by an officer; had there even been one alive, to accept it?
"I take what you say, Mr Fraiser, but still cannot tolerate a subordinate who will question my authority. I must consider that Pandora is a ship of war, liable to be in action at any time, and I have to draw my own conclusions as to your position aboard her."
"I understand, sir. And if it helps, nothing has changed as far as I am concerned, and I certainly meant no disrespect to yourself. I will continue to carry out ma duties; to navigate and command this ship when called upon, and take her into action, should that be necessary."
"But in the same situation as yesterday?"
"In the same situation as yesterday, I would do no different." The man was totally unmoved, and Banks sensed that nothing he could have done or said would alter his resolve. In the face of such certainty he felt further progress to be unlikely and relaxed into his chair before reaching for his cooling coffee.
"Very well; I will consider the matter again before we raise Portsmouth."
The master made to leave when Banks stopped him.
"There was just one more thing, Mr Fraiser."
"Yes sir?"
Banks noticed that Fraiser was once more as composed as he had been at the start of the interview. "You make a study of the weather, I fancy?"
If the change of subject surprised him, Fraiser did not show it. "Yes sir, I take regular observations and keep a log."
"I have spoken with Mr Doust and Mr Manning this morning. They have a mind to operate on the captain of the merchant we recaptured. Apparently Powell predicts an easing of the motion some time after dawn tomorrow, would you concur with that?"
Now Fraiser’s smile was warmer, and with just a hint of mischief. "I could not concur, sir; such accuracy is beyond my powers which, after all, are merely scientific. But Mr Powell has a fair gift when it comes to predicting the elements. I have been known to consult with him myself on a number of occasions. If he thinks there might be an easing, then I would say that there probably will be."
Banks also smiled slightly. "And you have no evidence?"
"No sir, it is a talent that Mr Powell has, and we should all be ready to benefit from any such gifts."
"A talent?" Banks could not help himself, although once more he had the odd sensation that he was drifting into an area where he could not talk on an equal basis with his sailing master.
"Yes sir."
"But Powell is a simple loblolly boy."
"Forgive me, sir; Mr Powell is certainly a loblolly boy; that is the rank that men have given him. But simple? Now there I would disagree with you. He has an uncommon knack when dealing with the wounded and the sick. He might not be skilled as a physician, but they say he can tell when a man will heal, and when he will die; it is an aptitude that Mr Doust makes service of I hears. Not all learning comes from books, nor intelligence, come to that. I would submit that Mr Powell’s sensitivities contribute greatly to the working of this ship, even though his rank might be low, and his responsibilities, apparently few." Fraiser paused, his face softened and the mischievous glint returned. "And after all, he can predict the weather and that is something that we, with all our fancy titles, can not."
* * * * *
"It will be a small burr hole," Doust announced. Powell’s promised lull had occurred exactly on schedule; Kate’s father was brought up on deck at first light and now lay in an improvised bed on the quarterdeck. Space and light were more plentiful and the position, just abaft the mainmast, was considered the best to minimise the ship’s motion, although in truth the ocean was almost completely flat and the wind hardly more than a breeze. Pandora eased through the water making only slightly more than steerage way, with barely a ripple from her bows.
"You’re not going to attempt to raise the depression?" Manning asked.
Doust shook his head. "Others may later, and welcome to it," he said. "I intend to relieve the pressure on the brain that he might live for long enough to let them try." He turned to Kate. "I will not ask you to leave, my dear. But please do not interfere; we might have complications, I am sure you understand."
She nodded silently, and Doust, aided by Powell, began to arrange the body to lie face down, the head turned to one side. About them the crew waited expectantly; although there was no crowd and the mizzen and main tops, probably the finest vantage points for the ordinary hands, were strangely unoccupied. No one gathered to watch, but that was not to say the decks were deserted. Men carried out their normal duties in rare silence; even the officers who had reason to be on deck were subdued and thoughtful. And the others, those from the watch below who sat quietly on the forecastle, indulging in scrimshaw work or embroidery, had not come on deck to witness an operation, and possibly a man’s death. There was nothing ghoulish in their presence; most would have readily admitted that the very idea did not catch their fancy at all, but the fact that it was being carried out in their ship, their home, made them attend. It was the same way that a man might wish to be present at the birth of his child; not actually in the room, which was naturally unthinkable, but in the general vicinity. To attend; in a strange way to show support, but not to watch.
Doust felt the wound again, then moved his hand slowly down the side of the patient’s head, stopping just above the ear.
"That will be the place," he said with clinical detachment. "We will make one wee hole through the bone, and see what we find. The smaller of the drills, if you please, Mr Manning. Mr Powell, you will secure the patient in case he decides to move. Now, gentlemen, let us begin."
* * * * *
There would never be a good time, never any real privacy, but that morning the ship seemed unusually quiet, with some talk of an operation on the quarterdeck, and Jenkins decided to lie in wait by the forward companionway. He knew it was Flint’s turn as mess cook and he was inspecting the tackle of their larboard gun with laboured nonchalance when Flint and young Matthew Jameson finally appeared.
"What cheer, Clem?"
Jenkins looked up with elaborate surprise at their arrival.
"Keeping busy are you?" Flint guessed that something was up and leant against a Samson post, waiting. Jenkins pursed his lips and reached into the waistband of his trousers.
"Fo
und this, thought you might want a look."
Flint took the paper without comment, and spread it out over the cascabel of the gun so that both he and Matthew could read. The silence that now seemed to saturate the entire ship gave dramatic import to the moment. Then Jameson let out a sigh, and Flint looked up.
"You know what this means?" he asked. Jenkins nodded, almost sadly.
"Where did it come from?" Jameson this time, as Flint was reading the note once more.
"Found it in me hammock when I awoke this morning."
"You’ve read it?" Flint again, and again Jenkins nodded.
"Most of it, yes. Some bits were a bit beyond my learning, but I know the meaning right enough."
"It says more money," Jameson said, meditatively. "That would be a ripe one."
Flint nodded. "Aye, but money’s nothing if it ain’t paid."
Jenkins looked at him quizzically. "Money’s paid at the end of a cruise, there’s no wrong in that."
"Money’s paid six months behind, an not at all if you’re in sick bay, ‘spite what put you there."
"Then there’s deductions," Jameson added gloomily. "When we got ours after Vigilant paid off, it hardly lasted more’n a couple of days."
"’sright," Flint agreed, his mind wandering agreeably back. "Gone before you knows you’ve got it."
Jenkins looked at the note again. "Vegetables to be provided when we’s in port, an’ fresh flour. How’s anyone going to promise that?"
"How’s anyone going to promise half of it?" Flint sighed. "An’ they’re being asked to hand out shore leave to all that wants to go. Admiralty’ll never agree; everyone would be swapping ships like dogs at a fair. An’ there’s some, a good few, who don’t want to be in no navy; they might ‘ave taken the bounty eager enough, but given half the chance they’ll be off, with their pockets full, an’ never to be seen no more."
"It’s what they’re asking for. And they’re asking in our name."
"Aye, that’s the point. We’re all gonna be blighted with this one."
A noise astern made them all jump, and Flint quickly hid the note he had been holding up to examine more closely. They looked at each other guiltily.
"We got to get rid of this," Jenkins all but whispered. "Officer catches anyone with it, and we’ll be scragged for sure."
"Just for having a piece of paper?" Matthew asked.
Flint nodded. "Not just a piece of paper; it’s a proclamation. It’s men demanding things that they ain’t going to get. Officers will see it as mutiny and anyone who has a hand in it will be liable. I’m not getting my neck stretched because Clem here didn’t do the right thing an’ use it for bumfodder."
"So, what do we do?"
"We cag it," Flint said definitely. "But that won’t make the problem go away. Someone gave this to you, someone who’s looking to cause trouble, and they’re not going to stop at leaving notes in hammocks."
"Who do you think?" Jameson asked.
"Scales." Jenkins was definite. Flint shrugged.
"That’s as maybe. But they’ll be more’n one, and probably from the Channel Fleet; we took quite a draft, and they’ve always been a grousey lot of lubbers."
"I comes from the Channel Fleet," Jenkins said, the hurt evident in his voice.
"Well there you go," Flint rolled his eyes at Matthew.
"Hey, but I don’t know about any demands for more pay, nor holidays, nor flour, nor any of it. I’m not behind this."
"No, an’ you wouldn’t be," Flint was serious again. "You’re a regular seaman through an’ through, but there’s plenty who ain’t; both in this ship, and all the fleets. And plenty more are joining them by the day."
"So what happens?" Jameson looked from one to the other. "I mean, we chucks the note away, and it might all stop, right?"
"We chucks the note away for sure, but nothing’s going to stop, not now it’s gotten this far." Flint said bitterly. "Someone’s gone to the trouble of having this printed. There’s organisation behind it, not just a simple ‘Round Robin’ to the admiral, and hope he gives us a 'make an’ mend'. These Jimmies are dead set, and it’s going to get nasty, mark my words. Real nasty."
"You mean they’ll give it to the captain?" Jameson asked.
"Way beyond the captain." Flint began to deliberately screw the note up into his fist. "It goes higher, like as not as high as can be. There’ll be admirals reading this afore we knows it."
"Then you’d better hand it over right away." It was a new voice, a voice with command; a voice with authority; an officer’s voice and no one moved as the terrible realisation dawned on them that they had been caught.
CHAPTER SIX
THE operation was a success, at least as far as anyone could tell. Certainly the patient hadn’t died, and even now, as he lay in the sick bay with diachylon plaster and cotton waste over a surprisingly small wound, he appeared to be breathing more easily. Kate placed an enquiring hand on his forehead.
"Seems cooler," she said. "But then that might just be my imagination."
Manning smiled. "We’ve only just brought him back to his berth," he said. "You must recall that half an hour ago…" He stopped; neither of them wanted to think too much about half an hour ago. As surgical procedures went it had not been particularly gory, but the idea of drilling into a human skull did not sit well, even with the most experienced of medics. Doust appeared with a small dark bottle, which he handed to Manning.
"If he wakes and appears to be in any pain, you can give him a half measure of laudanum." He peered at the patient with a stern, almost severe expression.
"Wakes?" Kate was surprised and the old man’s look mellowed as he turned to her.
"Aye, we drained off a fair amount of the fluid. I expect he’s had enough sleep for the time being so you might find he’ll be coming round in the next hour or so. But don’t expect anything else. We’ve been lucky so far, I canna tell ye how lucky. It would be an error to assume he will make a full and complete recovery, so kindly do not expect it."
But Kate was satisfied, and as she smiled at them both her face was lit by an energy never seen before. Her gaze returned to her father, as if she was expecting some immediate response.
"He’ll be none the worse for a bit of attention," Doust muttered, placing his hand gently on her shoulder, but he looked at his assistant pointedly before leaving. "Don’t ye go forgetting your duties, Mr Manning. There are other folk ill who needs a look now and then. Belike they haven’t all got pretty wee lasses for daughters, but they’re our responsibility ne’theless."
* * * * *
Mr Soames, the purser, was not one of the patients as such, and he certainly did not have a pretty young daughter. Indeed there was little, if anything, attractive about Mr Soames; his face, which resembled a bullfrog’s in a surprising number of ways, could never have been called beautiful, and his main social ability; a talent for naming every one of the stores Pandora carried, with an estimate of their cost price and an oblique reference to what he might make from them, meant that he rarely mixed easily with the other officers and had virtually no contact with the opposite sex. Which was a shame because, for all his faults, Mr Soames was partial to a pretty face and very much wanted to be loved.
Perhaps part of his problem lay in that he had no love to give in return, in fact the very idea of giving was very much against his nature. As the ship’s only professional capitalist, Soames had exclusive rights to all government stock sold to the men. Every piece of clothing, equipment and stores they might require was supplied though his offices, as well as some of the rarer luxuries such as soap, ink, sweetmeats, paper and tobacco. Mr Soames set a high price for all of these, but then he was able to as he had no competition and a captive market. It was a position he had bought: nearly four hundred pounds, a considerable sum of money, had been put up at the start of the commission to guarantee the stores, and it was up to him and his careful ways, to see that nothing was wasted. In this he was helped by an arrangement that allowed me
at to be issued at fourteen ounces to the pound, and there were generous allowances for clothing, candles, flints, chalk, rosin, brick dust and other issued stores that helped to keep him on the right side of solvent.
Actually Mr Soames’ ambition lay beyond simply staying in credit; he expected to retire a very wealthy man, and in not too many years’ time. Then, if his plans came to fruition, he would start a heady social life. With a reasonable sum invested in the funds, and a lifestyle that was both secure and comfortable, it would be strange if attractive females could not be tempted to share themselves with one such as him. He might even get married, although Mr Soames had already decided that to spend all his money with one woman would be something of a waste; far better to spread his wealth, and himself, more generously. A few years working with the Royal Navy and all this would come about; the plan was as solid as any of his business dealings, and it was a pity that one stupid mistake in Gibraltar had almost wrecked everything.
He approached the sickbay now, somewhat tentatively. The surgeon would have made his morning rounds, and it was his habit to shut himself away in his cabin until dinner was served in the gunroom. Mr Soames knew this, and hoped to catch Manning, his assistant. It was a simple matter after all, and he was not one to call attention to himself if he could avoid it. He had thought to call before, although the signs had only made themselves known in the last few days. Since then Pandora had been tossed about in a storm, boarded and recaptured a merchant, fought a desperate battle with a superior enemy, and the medical staff had been rather preoccupied with other patients. Throughout that time the problem had grown, both literally, and psychologically, to such an extent that Mr Soames felt it must be addressed without further delay. Such a thing had never happened to him before, but then he was no fool, and knew that it was a problem that could be solved. Solved as easily as adjusting a balance sheet, or altering a return. He simply needed to speak to a person who knew what to do, and the sooner he did so the better.